


Unawares

by glinda4thegood



Category: X-Files - Fandom
Genre: Angels, Christmas, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully faces her first Christmas since Melissa's death. <i>Chance meetings with strangers almost never left her feeling hopeful, at peace with the world.</i> Hopeful fiction from the days before my first fan heartbreak. Timeline: Post <i>The Blessing Way</i>, 3x01</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unawares

"I always give them books. Children need adventure and magic, need to learn to use their imaginations. They watch too much TV nowadays; and don't get me started on those video games."

Two women in the department store elevator were exchanging ideas for Christmas presents. Scully listened, her mind idling after an exhaustive search for the few presents she needed to complete her own shopping.

"These children hide in a wardrobe, and find a door into another world," the woman continued. "While young readers focus on the action, adventure and magic, they're being exposed to concepts of making good and bad choices, taking personal responsibility for their choices, and the necessity of taking a stand for what's right in dangerous and difficult situations."

"Sounds kind of dull and preachy, to me. I can't imagine my grandchildren would go for that kind of book."

"Trust me. They'll love them. There are a whole series of books, so you'd have presents lined up for birthdays and at least one more Christmas."

Elevator doors opened. The women moved off into the crowd leaving the department store.

If there was such a thing as a door into another world, Scully thought, this would be when it might appear. Christmas already had an inescapable element of magic and time travel woven into its fabric. Tradition, memory, fantasy, ghosts of happiness far past and near past; all converged on a few days at the end of each year. It struck her, as she walked purposefully toward her next destination, that her vision of time travel never went into the future. The past might be accessible, if only through memory. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Be was an entity entirely impossible to believe in.

Shop windows glowed and twinkled, each a self-contained universe of possibility. Scully passed all, barely registering the seductive come-hithers of staged merchandise. There was one window she wanted to visit, one window where she could stand and time travel in memory. It was late enough now that stores were closing, open signs turning their backs on the world. Scully walked faster. Around another corner . . .

A man stood in front of her window, face glowing with soft light reflected from the displays. Underdressed for the weather, his light suit coat had the collar and lapels turned up to offer some protection against the cold.

Scully slowed, willing him to only pause for a moment, then hurry on. But as she neared, he made no move to leave her coveted spot. She had two choices: walk past the window, or stop and risk having to exchange words with a stranger who was feeling the holiday spirit.

Porcelain doll faces, brightly painted wooden trains, curly-maned hobby horses; Scully's eyes swept over the treasure trove of old fashioned toys as her feet maintained a steady pace.

He turned as she passed, but not to move away. "Hello. I know you."

"I don't think so." The words were automatic. Scully's steady pace faltered. Fully facing her now, a stray puff of breeze scattered snowflakes against his face as he smiled at her; snowflakes caught the shop light and twinkled on his eyelashes, giving her a reason to look away from the deep amber of his eyes. Golden hair, worn unfashionably long, twined over the collar of his suit coat. If she had ever seen a man as beautiful, she would remember him. Scully stiffened her backbone, an automatic frown arranging itself over her face as she kept walking away from him.

"I was at Melissa's funeral."

The words hit at the base of her spine, shivered along arms and legs. His voice was musical with a hint of accent -- English? French? Scully turned; anger, distrust and resentment of his presence escaped into her words. "Excuse me? I _don't_ know you. Who are you, and why would you have been at Melissa's funeral?"

"I'm sorry. You are Dana Scully? We were never introduced. I'm Michel. Michel Chanter." He extended a long-fingered hand with a half-bow.

Why was he out without a coat in this weather? Easy suspicion built toward inevitable paranoia. "I didn't see you at the funeral. How did you know Melissa?"

"I do social work. Melissa and I met at what you might call a religious ceremony." Michel let his hand drop to his side.

That sounded like Melissa; probably something New Agey with meditation. Scully had a too-clear memory of the funeral: her mother, brother, Mulder and a few others in a tight knot of mourning. The periphery of the occasion had not been closely examined, so was not part of the black-edged scrapbook in her mind.

Michel turned back to the window. "I never get tired of looking at their toys. That doll," he pointed at a porcelain doll dressed in white tulle with golden braiding. "Beauty is obvious. You see that first. A closer inspection reveals the craftsmanship, the fine details, the reinforced joints and securely knotted hair. She's made to be loved, to preside over tea parties and adventures, not to sit on an ornamental shelf."

In spite of her instinct to walk away, leave this strange man behind, Scully took a step toward the window. The doll held a small golden harp, had a golden halo nestled in her hair. Melissa would have loved her. The thought brought a knot of pressure to the base of her throat. She swallowed and took a deep, slow breath of the cold night air. "I suppose you're out looking for last minute Christmas gifts."

"Like you are?" Michel laughed, a joyous sound that brought goosebumps to Scully's arms. "You might say my presence is in the nature of a last minute Christmas gift."

"I don't understand." Goosebumps moved from her arms to the back of her neck. It was a feeling she'd had in other, less picturesque circumstances; a feeling that never foretold tidings of comfort and joy.

"It's complicated." He shivered, then looked surprised. "It's cold this evening."

"You're not wearing a coat." Scully heard the disapproving, motherish tone in her own voice. She'd fallen into a bad habit of speaking to Mulder this way, and now she was using it on strangers.

"It never occurred to me when I left home." Michel took in a deep breath, blew a cloud against the window and marked a wavy symbol in the condensation. "May I take you somewhere warm, buy you a drink? There's a restaurant just down the street."

No. Scully's mind rejected the idea. But they would be in public, so perhaps . . . "If you'll tell me more about your acquaintance with my sister."

 

The restaurant was dimly lighted and warm. They sat in a booth where they could look at the street through ice-etched window glass. Michel turned his collar and lapels down, shaking golden curls onto his shoulders. The waitress appeared immediately.

"You never have to wait for service, do you?" Scully murmured, declining a menu with a wave of her hand. Both Michel and the waitress ignored the comment.

"Hot chocolate? With marshmallows?" His voice was hopeful, anticipatory.

"Yes. That sounds good." Scully smiled, a gesture that felt stiff on her lips. He sounded like a young boy, out for a special treat; Bill had always asked for hot chocolate at restaurants when they were little. "Tell me what you meant -- about being a Christmas gift."

"The holidays can be a depressing time for many people. The lonely can be lonelier, the poor feel poorer, the sick and injured can magnify the contrast between their conditions and the world of the TABs that care for them."

"TABs?" Scully moved her hands to allow the waitress room to set their chocolate before them. She'd included a plate of fancy shortbread cookies and fudge rippled wafers that she pushed toward Michel with a wink.

"Sorry. Professional shorthand. Temporarily Able Bodied people."

Scully blew on the surface of her cup, breathing in the sweet steam. "The philosophical implication being that any of us may acquire a disability before life ends."

Michel's face disappeared behind his cup. After a long drink he set the cup down and sighed. "That tastes amazing. Chocolate: what a wonderful creation." He licked cream from his lips. "Melissa said you were a doctor. But you don't practice on the living?"

"Not very often." Scully shook her head. "Back to your explanation."

"I've been given the opportunity to help bring the spirit of Christmas to a special client."

"A child? Is that why you were looking at the toys?" Warmth from the chocolate pooled in her stomach, then radiated outwards. Scully took her spoon, scraped the ring of marshmallow off the cup, licking sweet goo off the spoon.

An entire cookie disappeared into Michel's mouth. His lashes made half-moon fans of gold on his cheeks as he closed his eyes and chewed. "No. I just love looking at the toys." His confession sounded slightly embarrassed. "Man can use his hands and heart to craft beauty both exalted and mundane. Sometimes I need to especially consider the mundane."

The phrasing was odd, Scully decided. "You said you met Melissa at a religious ceremony. Are you a social worker, or cleric?"

"The line between the two is fine to invisible." He ate two more shortbread cookies with the same rapt appreciation. "Do you believe in God, Dana?"

"I do." Her voice sounded hard and defensive, even to herself.

"So do I; but don't worry. I'm not inclined to be a zealot. Did you find the Christmas gifts you were looking for tonight?"

Scully forced herself to relax against the booth's cool padding. She glanced at the single bag on the seat beside her. "I guess so. I found a few things at that old department store near the toy shop. Perfume my mother likes. A coffee table book for my brother."

"What do you want for Christmas this year?" Michel's attention was completely on her now; the cookies were gone.

The question brought a surge of warmth to her cheeks, and brought her normal defensiveness to full alert. "I'm a little old to want things for Christmas."

"Oh no." He reached across the table, took her hand. "No one is ever too old to want something special for Christmas."

 _I want to go home and find Melissa drinking coffee with mother, near a half-trimmed tree._ Scully pulled her fingers away from his. "I thought Christmas was about wanting things for other people. World peace. An end to famine and disease. The destruction of imperialistic monsters everywhere."

"Those are good Christmas wishes." Michel smiled, pushed his cup and plate away. The waitress materialized again.

"It's on the house, sir." She cleared away the dishes with quick hands and giddy laughter. "Merry Christmas!"

Michel tucked something into the waitress' apron as she paused next to him. "Thank you, my dear. Merry Christmas to you and yours."

They hadn't talked about Melissa, Scully realized. But maybe that was best. She slid out of the booth. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Chanter. Merry Christmas."

He let her lead the way out of the restaurant, but showed no indication he was going to let her walk off. "You wanted to look at the toy store window by yourself. Alone."

Scully nodded, grudgingly. "It's one of my Christmas traditions."

"And I spoiled it."

Snow began to fall, lightly. Fat individual flakes stuck to their heads and arms as they paused under the street light outside the restaurant.

"I can go another night." Although she knew she wouldn't. Scully turned to leave, hoping he would take the clue. "It was nice meeting you."

"Your car's down in the parking lot by the creche? May I walk with you?"

Stalker, pervert, or blood-sucking fiend? Scully forced herself to consider the possibilities, but rejected each. "Okay. If you knew Melissa, you must know what I do for a living."

Michel laughed, and somewhere in the distance a carillon began to play. "I know you're an FBI agent, prepared to defend her country -- and her honor if need be. I mean you only the greatest good, Dana Scully."

There had been abysmally few people in her life who could have truthfully made the statement this stranger offered so casually. Scully continued walking silently beside him toward the glow coming from the creche.

"My car's over there." Scully paused in front of the creche, studying the fiberglass family huddled around the wooden manger. Vandals had spray-painted the faces of the wisemen, but Mary, Joseph and the baby were untouched.

"What do you want for Christmas?"

A shiver started somewhere near the arch of her foot, vibrated its way through her entire body, ended in an undignified chin wobble. "Two things." Scully hadn't meant to answer him; hadn't meant to let the answer crystallize in her consciousness, hadn't meant to reveal the pain eating a raw wound in her soul. "Why do you keep asking?"

"It's my job." Michel took hold of her shoulders, turned her and stared down into her upturned face. "I've seen the sun kiss morning oceans that were less blue than your eyes. I've seen the sun fire snow-topped peaks of mountain crests that were dimmer than your lovely hair. I've watched orchards of peaches ripen under summer sun. The velvet of those peaches is sandpaper next to the sweet cushion of your lower lip."

Michel's golden hair seemed to curl around the fingers of winter wind. He bent, touched his mouth to her forehead, and Scully thought she could smell ocean and peaches and the spice of strange incense. When he straightened, the expression on his face was rapturous. "But the Scully inside is even more beautiful. It's my job to ask three times. What do you want for Christmas?"

The world whirled, spun on kaleidoscope colors and patterns, with the holy family at the center. Something was coming undone, evaporating, being given over to the infinite.

 _Adventure. Magic. Taking a stand for what is right and good._ "Two things. May I want two things for Christmas?" Scully managed to ask.

"Of course you may."

Impossible wishes. Desperately important wishes. Scully folded her hands tightly in front of her. "I want to know. I want to know He knows what's going on, and that He cares."

Michel nodded. "And the second thing?"

"I have a friend." Scully felt her throat tighten again. "I want him to be happy."

"Worthy Christmas wishes." Michel touched her folded hands. "He knows. He cares. And we're working on Mulder." He shook his golden curls, grimaced and laughed. "It hasn't been easy, but we have every confidence you'll get your wish."

She hadn't mentioned Mulder by name. Had Michel Chanter really known her sister; had he spoken with Melissa about Scully and her life?

Michel picked his way across the frosted ground, past the manger, past the wise men. He paused several feet beyond and turned to face her, raising his arms skyward. Overhead clouds parted and the moon touched new-fallen snow, gilding golden curls with numinous light.

"Welcome Christmas as we stand, heart to heart and hand in hand." Michel grinned and nodded as he saw recognition come to her. "I love the Grinch -- nothing dull and preachy about _that_ story of growth and redemption. Merry Christmas, Dana Scully."

The moon disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Scully blinked. Michel stood still in the dark, behind the looming wisemen.

"Michel?" She waited for an instant, then started across the snowy field.

Something was wrong. He stood too still. Scully's hands found a cold surface, traced folds of artificial fiberglass cloth. She backed away, breath gasping from her throat as the moon peeked back down at the earth.

The fiberglass angel revealed under pale winter light stood with hands outstretched in praise, golden hair painted around a sexless, cherub's face.

Turning on the ball of her foot, Scully spun away, ran to her car, locked the doors and started the engine. She sat clutching the steering wheel, shivering as the fan blew cold air on her legs. The thought ran through her mind, over and over: _A door had opened and closed; a message had been sent and received._

Aware of the icy streets, Scully drove home slowly. The car heater toasted her legs, relaxing her muscles, bringing a feeling of euphoric comfort. Chance meetings with strangers almost never left her feeling hopeful, at peace with the world. If only she could hold onto the feeling for a little while -- that would be a gift nearly as precious as the ones she'd shared with Michel Chanter.

"Merry Christmas, Melissa. Merry Christmas, mother and Bill. Merry Christmas, Mulder." The last of the clouds fled, leaving the moon bright in a clear sky. "Welcome Christmas. Bring your light . . ."


End file.
